The Young Elites (The Young Elites #1)(41)
Author: Marie Lu

“She will be able to fool a thirsty man into drinking liquid metal. She will be able to make someone feel pain that isn’t there.”

Raffaele shivers at the possibilities. “Make sure the control she learns doesn’t eclipse her loyalties to you. Adelina may have aligned the strongest with fear and hatred, but she also aligned with passion and ambition. The combination drives her to recklessness, makes her unreliable and hungry for power.”

Enzo looks on as Adelina slowly conjures a detailed illusion of a wolf, so realistic that it looks as if the animal were really standing there on the cavern floor. Michel claps his hands in approval. “She will be magnificent,” he replies.

This time, Raffaele feels Enzo’s energy shift at the mention of Adelina, flickers of an emotion not usually associated with the Reaper. Not for years. Something happened between them, he realizes. Something dangerous.

“She’s not Daphne,” Raffaele reminds him gently.

Enzo looks at him, and in that moment, Raffaele feels a pang of deep sympathy for the young prince. A memory comes back to him of the afternoon when he’d accompanied Enzo to the apothecary to see the shop’s young assistant. When he’d witnessed Enzo’s proposal. Even though quiet rain fell outside the shop, the sun still shone through, painting the world in a glittering haze of light. Daphne had laughed at the affection in Enzo’s eyes, teased the gentleness in his voice, and he’d laughed with her. Raffaele had glimpsed her touching Enzo’s cheek and pulling him close.

Marry me, Enzo had said to her. She’d kissed him in reply.

After she died, Raffaele never again sensed that emotion in Enzo’s heart.

Until now.

Finally, Enzo nods a brief farewell and turns to leave. “Prepare her,” he tells Raffaele before he goes. “She’s coming with us to the Spring Moons.”

I joined the Spring Moons festivities for the first time,
and it was as if I had come into a strange land. The people have transformed into visions of faeries and ghouls. I cannot decide
if I want to stay or leave.

—Letter from Amendar of Orange to his sister,

on his second voyage to Estenzia

Adelina Amouteru

There was a time during my childhood, a brief time, when my father was kind to me. I dream of it tonight.

I am thirteen. My father wakes up in a cheery mood, then comes to my bedchambers and pulls my curtains open to let the light in. I watch him warily, uncertain what has brought about this sudden change. Did Violetta say something to him?

“Get dressed, Adelina,” he says, smiling at me. “Today I am taking you to the port with me.” Then he leaves, humming to himself.

My heart lurches in excitement. Can this be happening? Father always takes Violetta to the ports, to watch the ships and buy her presents. I have always stayed home. I sit in bed for a moment longer, still unsure, and then I hop to the floor and rush to my dresser. I choose my favorite outfit, a blue-and-cream Tamouran silk dress, and tie two long strips of blue cloth around my hair, securing it high behind my head. Maybe Violetta is coming with us, I thought. I skip out of my room to hers, expecting her to be ready too.

Violetta is still in bed. When I tell her where we’re going, she looks surprised, then worried. “Be careful,” she says.

But I’m so happy that I just sneer at her. She seems kind here, but that is only because she’s jealous that she isn’t coming. I turn away. Violetta’s warning fades from my thoughts.

The day is wonderful, full of bright colors. My father takes me on a canal ride. He helps me out of the gondola. The port is bustling with people, merchants calling for their wares to be shipped to the appropriate addresses, shopkeepers standing behind their stands, calling out at curious passersby, children chasing after dogs. My father holds my hand. I hurry alongside him, laughing at his jokes, smiling when I know I should smile. Deep inside, I am frightened. This is not normal. My father buys us each a bowl of sweet ice flavored with milk and honey, and together we sit to watch the woodmen and caulkers work on a new ship. He chats animatedly, telling me how strict Estenzia is about the quality of her ships, how every rope and sail and bobbin is tagged with labels and colors identifying the craftsman responsible. I don’t understand everything he says, but I don’t dare interrupt him. I wait for him to turn violent. But today my father looks so carefree that I can’t help but fall under the spell, letting myself believe entirely that he is finally happy with me.

Maybe things will be different from now on. Maybe I had just been making mistakes up until now.

Finally, when the sun begins making its way down the sky, we return to the gondolas and head for home. “Adelina,” he says as we sit together, swaying and creaking with the current. He takes my face in his hands. “I know who you really are. You needn’t be afraid.”

My smile stays on, even though my heart wavers. What does he mean?

“Show me what you can do, Adelina. I know there must be something inside of you.”

I stare back in confused silence, my foolish smile still planted on my lips. When I don’t answer, my father’s gentle expression starts to fade.

“Go on,” he coaxes. “You needn’t be afraid, child.” His voice lowers. “Show me that you are no ordinary malfetto. Go on.”

Slowly, I start to realize that he has been using kindness to coax my power out of me. Perhaps he’s even made a wager with somebody already, somebody who would pay my father for me if I could demonstrate some strange ability. My smile trembles along with my heart. He has tried violence and failed to provoke a power in me. Now he wants to try affection. Be careful, Violetta had told me. Do you see what a fool I am?

Still, I try. I want so badly to please him.

The next day, we repeat the same routine. My father is curiously gentle and attentive, treating me as if he saw Violetta before him instead of me. Violetta says nothing more, and I’m relieved. I know what he wants from me. And I am so hungry to accept this false kindness that I try every day, as hard as I can, to conjure something to please my father.

It never happens.

Finally, weeks later, my father’s good humor wanes. He takes my face into his hands one last time on that carriage ride home. He asks me to show him what I can do. And again, I fail. The carriage lurches along in an awkward, uncomfortable silence.

After a while, my father’s hands leave my face. He edges away from me, sighs, and looks out the window at the moving landscape.

“Worthless,” he mutters, his voice so quiet that I barely hear him.